


Chosen Family

by Cat_Latin



Series: Chosen Family [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, His Last Vow Spoilers, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:06:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Latin/pseuds/Cat_Latin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Love is a more vicious motivator."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chosen Family

 

 When Sherlock blasted Magnussen's brain from the back of his skull, he'd not felt one speck of remorse. Satisfaction rolled low in his gut. It was another moment of restoring balance to the universe.

The rest of Sherlock's evening was spent in handcuffs, carefully questioned by Mycroft's finest. He sat tall in the uncomfortable seats, but was forced to leave his hands in his lap, under the table. He kept the rest of his body as still as possible, monitored his physical tells to the best of his ability ( _Relax the jaw, refrain from gazing to the left)_ , but he couldn't stop the tremors in his hands, or the nervous finger-tapping.

During the questioning, they'd paused proceedings three times, and walked him to three different locations in the same building, which seemed showy, even for the bloated bureaucracy that operated under Mycroft's shoe _._ Sherlock knew that John was still somewhere in the building as well, also answering question after question, though not in handcuffs.

There was no sign of Scotland Yard, and Sherlock had picked up enough clues from Mycroft's staff and special agents, to deduce the media had not been alerted, at least not to the truth.

Somehow, Sherlock achieved a moment alone with Mycroft and John, as they rode an elevator between floors. Anthea was present, fingers dancing over her Blackberry, facing the doors, but she didn't count.

Sherlock's hands were cuffed in front of him, so he was able to snatch the impeccable handkerchief from Mycroft's breast pocket. Sherlock used it to thoroughly clean John's face, wiping from the incredulous lines above his raised eyebrows, down to his stubborn chin. Everyone stared; even Anthea turned from her Blackberry and watched him keenly. No one said a word.

Sherlock was being sent very far away, to somewhere unpleasant, for the rest of his shortened life, there wasn't anything actually visible on John's face, but that _bottom feeder_ had touched him, just before Sherlock had put the bastard down, like the diseased monster he was.

Sherlock shoved the wadded cloth back in Mycroft's pocket, and did not explain or apologize. He heard John's breath hitch, as the elevator doors slid open, revealing more government security, to escort him to the next round of questioning. Sherlock's hands had stopped shaking.

Three dreary days in a London safehouse, followed by one of the shortest plane rides in history, and Sherlock found himself seated with John in Mycroft's office, watching playbacks of the day's news. Mary had gone home to rest.

They regarded the media puppet-image of Moriarty on all three screens in Mycroft's office, its chattering mouth momentarily paused. Sherlock was not convinced.

“Did you...did you _design_ this, Mycroft, as an attempt to rescue me?”

His brother made a face Sherlock had come to recognize as regret. “No. And I should not be grateful for these circumstances, but I am.”

“Sentiment?” His elder brother fiddled with something on his desk, and did not correct him. Sherlock snarled, “Now I'm having an even harder time believing you're not behind this. You felt guilty about sending me away, and now suddenly duty calls, I'm welcomed back, you're _grateful_ , and we have no way of knowing when you'll _stop_.” Sherlock felt ready to burst with unfocused anger, and they were both just sitting there, his brother, and his--and _John--_ like dumb sheep.

“Anything involving sentiment has a built-in measure for error,” Sherlock muttered. “You can't quantify the length of time one needs to--what are they calling it now? Oh yes, ' _process'_ feelings--” Sherlock lifted his arms, his hands making lazy, limp-fingered air quotes “--as if it were some sort of cottage industry.” He burrowed down into Mycroft's fine leather chair, and put his shoed feet on the armrest, ignoring Mycroft's frown. “The teenage set is now referring to sentiment as _'feels,'_ which sounds broken and idiotic, and therefore somewhat closer to the truth.”

“Stop,” John said. “Stop talking now.”

For once, Sherlock did.

Mycroft sighed and said, “While I'm flattered you believe I am capable of such grand machinations, I can assure you that I am not responsible for this, nor do I have a plan for dealing with it. I suggest you go home, and prepare for the oncoming storm.”

John went out the door, but Mycroft stopped Sherlock with a hand on his arm. “You're slipping, little brother," he said, under his breath. "I recognize your preliminary strikes when I experience them. Don't you dare lecture _me_ about sentiment.”

Sherlock ground out, “So you can do what you always have, and bait me into defending my own _intimate_ interests, like a thesis before a committee?”

For a split second, Mycroft looked stricken, then the placid mask was back in place, and he said smoothly, “I can assure you, brother mine, that no alterations in the rusted workings of your heart, would deter me from being, as John has put it on a number of occasions, an 'insufferable twat.'" He smiled grimly.  "I know how you rely on me to remain constant.”

Mycroft released Sherlock's arm, and turned away. “One of these days, you'll realize I am actually on your side.”

Anthea released them from the bowels of another black government car, and they slowly mounted the steps to the flat. John was tired, hadn't questioned Baker Street as their destination. He acted as though he was home, even shuffling to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Sherlock refused to break the spell. They stood at the counter, sipping weak tea, the air thick with words unspoken. Words, Sherlock reflected, failed both of them on a near-constant basis.

Sherlock had no words for his brother, at least none that Mycroft would like to hear. Now that Sherlock wasn't flying off into exile and death, he had words for his friend, and he suddenly became impatient to relieve himself of them. “John,” he began, and John heard the strain in Sherlock's voice.  He froze, with his mug near his lips, watching Sherlock with steady, cautious eyes.

Sherlock forced himself to meet John's resolute gaze, and swallowed. “I'm...glad I was allowed to come home.” _Deep breath._ “After all we've been through, I'm not sure if I could be content without you, with simply knowing that you exist in the world, without being somewhere near you. You...are my chosen family. And I feel the same for Mary.”

There. He hadn't even needed to practice it.

John set his mug carefully on the counter, and closed his eyes. His mouth went hard for a moment, then softened into his familiar, sad smile. He abruptly moved to leave the kitchen, Sherlock presumed, to go be emotional somewhere else. Suddenly furious, Sherlock reached out and snagged John by the shirttails, before he could escape. John instantly straightened and looked down at the floor, hands balled into fists. He was trembling slightly.

“Don't you dare allow me to say something as ridiculous as that, and walk away!” Sherlock growled, and sat himself down hard on the kitchen floor, legs splayed like a petulant child. John giggled helplessly. His knees buckled, and he hit the floor beside Sherlock with a thump.

For a long time John shook almost silently, vacillating between laughter and grief. Sherlock realized his hand was still fisted in John's shirt. He pressed against his friend's back and heard a low, keening groan, smothered by coughing, covered with nervous throat-clearing. John kept his face turned away. In the quiet of Baker Street, in the eye of another storm, the anguish came off his friend in waves, several years worth, if Sherlock was any judge. Sherlock sat and accepted it, overwhelmed, his eyes stinging.

After a while, he grasped John around his ribs, and bodily lifted him up from the floor. An attempt to help the man as one would assist a drunken friend, somehow evolved into Sherlock draped over the back of John, with his face buried in the hair at John's nape. He was pushing his hips insistently against the cleft of John's ass, through his own trousers, through John's jeans, while John gripped the edge of the counter, and ground his cock into Sherlock's hand like he was fighting to get out to the other side.

They both registered Mrs. Hudson coming upstairs at the same time. They had about eleven seconds to decide what they wanted her to see.

In the end, it was impossible to determine who withdrew first. Mrs. Hudson discovered John at the kettle, and may have caught a glimpse of the back of Sherlock, as he closed the bathroom door.  

 


End file.
